


a yard with a garden in the middle of it

by mayerwien



Series: Stopping for a Spell [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Christmas, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Holidays, M/M, animal mage yuri, magic inn au, plant mage otabek, the one where the katsukis own a magical inn and everybody is a mage, there is Generic Fantasy Stew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: “I always thought plant mages rested in winter. Since there isn’t much that grows now,” Yuri remarks as Otabek waters the bush. The chilly air trickles down his throat and into his chest, his breath forming tiny clouds in front of his face.A faint smile tugs at the corners of Otabek’s mouth. “No, this is their time to rest,” he says, dipping his head towards the rose bush. “And they trust me to care for them while they do—so in the spring, they can grow back stronger than ever.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strikinglight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight/gifts).



> AND WE ARE OFFICIALLY IN FANTASY AU HELL
> 
> Title from “A Face to Call Home” by John Mayer, because to be honest this fic actually originally sprouted out of me hearing that line and thinking “ok but what if literally, otabek really, REALLY digs plants”

Yuri wakes to the wind, cold fingers raking across his face. He pushes his covers off and sits up, blinking blearily in the winter morning light, before frowning down at the small tabby cat sitting primly at the foot of his bed. “If you can open the window when you come in, you can sure as hell close it behind you,” he informs her.

 _I opened it because you’ve been sleeping too long,_ Katya replies mildly. She stretches and yawns, her perfect pink tongue darting around her chops. _I couldn’t wake you up. We had breakfast without you._

Yuri swings his legs off the bed and swears when his feet touch the floor. Still half-asleep, he staggers to the window above his desk, fumbling for the latch and accidentally knocking over a stack of books, his empty inkwell, and several small jars of salve in the process. He pauses, though, when he sees the five acorns lined up on the sill. He extends a finger to touch one, setting it rocking back and forth. “The squirrels?” he asks.

 _Mmm. They said to wish you a warm Longnight._ Katya’s leaped off the bed and is standing by the door, twitching her tail impatiently.

As if on cue, Yuri hears an almighty crash from downstairs, accompanied by a distressed yelp. “Gods,” he mutters, grabbing yesterday’s tunic off the back of his chair and pulling it over his head. “They’re turning the whole inn upside down.”

Some of the guests have also tiptoed nervously out of their rooms and onto the second-floor landing, to see what the commotion is about. Jumping down the last few steps of the staircase from the third floor, Yuri props himself up on the railing with his palms and leans over. Down by the bar, the new kitchen boy is apologizing profusely to Yuuri, and around them, all the inn’s best serving bowls are in pieces on the floor.

“No, don’t, you’ll cut yourself that way,” Yuuri says, as the boy starts to reach down to pick up one of the shards. Instead, Yuuri lifts a hand and spins in a slow circle. A faint glow surrounds him, and the broken pieces of glass and porcelain trundle towards each other and easily fit back together.

“See?” Yuuri smiles. “Just be more careful next time, all right, Minami?”

“Yes, sir!” The boy nods eagerly and proceeds to collect the good-as-new bowls into a dangerously high stack, before returning to the back at a speed that definitely does not bring the word ‘careful’ to mind.

Shaking his head and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Yuuri watches Minami go, and then glances up to where Yuri is standing. “Oh, Yurio, you’re up!” he calls, waving a little. “There’s still cold ham and cheese in the kitchen.” Wordlessly, Yuri starts to descend to the first floor in pursuit of said cold ham and cheese, but he stops when Phichit suddenly appears on the stair beside him, throwing his leg over the banister and sliding down backwards.

“Whoops, sorry! Morning, Yurio!” Phichit calls merrily over his shoulder as he goes. Not far behind are Leo and Guanghong, who are elbowing each other in an attempt to get to the banister first.

Yuri scowls. “Keep that up and Celestino’s going to take back your robes,” he yells down the stairs.

“He threatens to every day!” is the cheerful reply.

Behind the bar, Mila is concocting a batch of something undoubtedly lethal; leaning over the counter, she flicks the back of Yuri’s neck hard as he passes. “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” she remarks.

Yuri takes a retaliatory swipe at Mila, who easily sidesteps it with a click of her tongue. “You must wake up on the wrong side every day, because you’re always ugly,” Yuri informs her. The amount of venom in his tone is uncalled for, even he knows, but Mila just raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t let Yakov hear you talking like that,” she says. “You’ll need to spell your ear back on when he’s through with you.” In response, Yuri makes a half-hearted rude hand gesture at her as he storms into the kitchen.

Over the years, the Hasetsu Inn, run by the Katsuki family, has somehow become a second home to a bevy of different mages from across the land. They come and go as their callings require them, but all of them have found somehow that once you’ve stayed at the inn, you never really leave. The townsfolk know that at any given time, they can count on at least one of the inn’s third-floor inhabitants for a charm to keep their tools from rusting or their wagon wheels from falling off; a spell to ease aches and pains or soothe an anxious mind; and on relatively uneventful nights, simply a drink and a good chat.

It’s a small village, Hasetsu; it doesn’t even appear on most maps. Yuri certainly hadn’t heard of it before his teacher, Yakov, essentially picked him up by the scruff and dragged him here, telling him it would do him good to live among other mages while he was still an apprentice. Personally, Yuri still fails to see how this benefits his studies in any way—all it means is that there are more people to disturb his work and get into subsequent shouting matches with.

All the mages, young and old, are glad to help out with chores and minor enchantments around the inn—even more so in preparation for tonight, the longest night of the year. Hiroko is making the traditional stew, in a crockpot massive enough to serve all the tenants, guests, and usual bar patrons; Yuuri’s woven wreaths with branches and ribbons for the windows and doors, and Phichit is lending his magic to lanterns for the whole village, his red, blue, and green flames burning on the candles within.

One of Yuri’s tasks is to keep the mice out of the kitchen and the guests’ rooms. He keeps shooing them away, only to find them returned barely a day later; they’re stubborn creatures, and the inn is blessedly warm in winter. (Phichit keeps volunteering to house them in his own room; Yuuri has to keep firmly telling him that unless the mice become capable of paying rent, it’s not going to happen.)

After he’s claimed a corner of the worn bench by the oven for himself, sandwich clamped firmly between his teeth, Yuri pulls his hair back and closes his eyes, breathing deeply and letting the sounds of the busy kitchen fall away. Once his mind is clear, he casts his magic wide—down the hallways and into the corners of all the rooms, then deep into the walls and up into the rafters.

Yuri senses the mice almost instantly, small warm bodies huddled in the bottoms of the wardrobes. They shrink back at the touch of his mind, what to them must be an overwhelmingly powerful presence. _Go nest somewhere else,_ he snaps at them. _Before Katya loses her patience._

 _Excuse me?_ Katya, who is sitting beside him, stops licking her paw. _You know you’re far more likely to eat the mice than I am. I prefer cream, thank you very much._

“You’re no help. You could at least pretend,” Yuri grumbles.

The mice are all squeaking their pleas, and Yuri is close to storming into each of the guests’ rooms and banishing the mice himself, when the back door creaks open, sending a small drift of snow spilling onto the kitchen floor. Yuri glances sideways and sees Otabek carefully wiping his boots on the mat, closing the door behind him.

Otabek looks up and meets his eyes. “Good morning,” he says quietly. Yuri has a mouth full of bread and cheese, so he can only make a vague noise of acknowledgment as Otabek crosses the room, stopping to scratch Katya behind the ears before exiting into the dining area.  

 _Ah,_ remarks Katya knowingly, watching him go. _So that’s what you’re really upset about._

“You shup up,” Yuri says through his sandwich.

 

Otabek had come over the mountains to them not too long ago, at summer’s blue height—bearing no worldly possessions other than the cloak on his back and the saddlebag on his horse, the latter of which they all soon found out held nothing but packets and packets of flower and vegetable seeds. He was a plant mage, he said in not too many words over his tankard later that evening, taking his journeyman’s year; he was just passing through, looking for a town that might need his help with their crops.

“Well,” Hiroko had said as she gathered up the plates. “Our farmers are proud souls, and would never admit to needing help from a mage, but—if they like you, they might ask you to stay anyway.” She and Yuuri had exchanged a knowing look then; sure enough, a few days later, the tomatoes and squashes in the fields were looking a little plumper than before, and Otabek’s saddlebag was hanging from the bedpost in the room at the end of the hall.

In the first couple of weeks, Yuri found himself watching the new arrival with a combination of mild interest and reasonable suspicion. Otabek always made himself as inconspicuous as possible, in contrast to almost everyone else at the inn—and ironically, that was what caught Yuri’s attention. The first real time they spoke, however, was the morning Yuri walked into the inn to find Otabek sitting at the empty bar, talking to Katya in a low voice while he made up his poultices.

For a moment, Yuri stood frozen in the doorway. It was as though a spell had been cast over the whole room—something about the way the sunlight was streaming through the windows, the way the tall mage was nodding and bending his head to Katya’s, while his large, careful hands knotted lengths of string securely around the neck of each small muslin sack.

“She can’t understand you,” Yuri spoke up then, stuffing his fists into his pockets and striding over to the bar. Otabek didn’t startle; merely lifted his gaze to meet Yuri’s, as though he’d been expecting him. His dark eyes reminded Yuri of the mountain lion he and Yakov had met on their travels once—quiet and keen and powerful, all at the same time.

“I know,” Otabek replied quietly. “I just like cats.” To prove the feeling was mutual, Katya had rubbed her head up against Otabek’s hand—something she never did, not even to Yuri. _He has a nice voice,_ she purred. _Not like all your screeching, Yurochka._

Yuri had frowned at Otabek. He’d only ever briefly met one or two plant mages before, and he never had anything to talk about with them. To Yuri, plants are only worthwhile if they can be _used_ for something; he’s spent enough hours muttering _borage for fever, white willow bark for pain_ under his breath to appreciate those—but the rest of plant magic has always been unfathomable to him, no matter how much Yakov tells him zoology and botany are rooted in the same ground. He’s always thought that plants take too long to grow, are more often than not powerless in the face of drought and hungry insects and strong winds and rain and countless other things—are, when it comes right down to it, wholly uninteresting. (“You can’t _talk_ to plants,” Yuri complained once to Yakov; of course you can, Yakov had rumbled, talking to them wakes them up, encourages them to blossom and bear fruit—and Yuri had huffed “Well, yes, but they don’t talk _back.”)_

“Surprised cats like _you,_ considering you spend more time with grass than with any other living thing,” Yuri remarked carelessly, leaning back against the counter. Otabek said nothing for a while, merely continued to softly knead the top of Katya’s head with his knuckles, coaxing another purr from her.

“I’ve found,” Otabek replied at last, “that plants and animals appreciate being treated the same way. Sometimes, getting to know them means being quiet before anything else. Watching, listening.” It was the most Yuri had ever heard him say in a single breath—more than _anyone_ had ever heard him say, he was willing to wager.

“Some might say it’s the same with people, too,” Otabek added, picking up his scissors and snipping off another length of twine. Disappointed that he’d returned to his work and stopped petting her, Katya leaped off the counter and twined idly around Yurio’s ankles, before trotting off to make mischief somewhere else. “Either way, it’s a skill that takes practice.”

Yuri remembers he’d scoffed at that, probably said something dismissive about how plants and people were nothing alike, and walked off without a second thought. But the next morning, Yuri had opened his door to find a small plant sitting on the hallway floor outside it, a neat bulb of spiky leaves in a clay pot. From his studies, he knew it was an aloe plant, that the leaves could be cut and applied to minor burns—but he didn’t have a clue how to care for it.

Of course, the card tucked underneath the pot solved that for him. _Indirect sunlight. Water only if dry to the touch,_ the spidery handwriting said. _Cut leaves close to the base, but be warned of the spikes; they might not look it, but they’re sharp enough to draw blood._ And then, at the very bottom— _If you have any trouble with it, bring it to me._

“This is a waste of time,” Yuri grumbled, but he picked up the plant and took it inside anyway. It’s sat on his desk quietly putting forth new shoots ever since—not directly in front of the window, but just close enough to soak up the sunlight that passes through.

 

Since then, of course, they’ve had other conversations—but looking back, it was the aloe that probably first put the idea into Yuri’s head, to give Otabek a Longnight gift. Yuri is terrible with presents; he likes receiving them even less than he likes giving them. Back home, he had only ever had his grandfather to exchange gifts with, and that was never difficult; they’d simply always told each other what they needed, for practicality’s sake, a new tunic or a pair of gloves or a box of tea. Here at the inn, Yuri’s usual custom has simply been to buy a basket of pastries from the bakery and pass it around the table—but he thinks Otabek deserves better than that from him, somehow, even if he’s reluctant to delve too deep into the reasons why.

Yuri already knows there’s nothing in town Otabek is likely to need; his boots are still sturdy, his cloak and scarf good as new. In the past couple of weeks, Yuri looked over all the passing peddlers’ wares with a critical eye, but found nothing of interest among their gaudy trinkets and baubles. And now Longnight is tonight, and Yuri is still woefully empty-handed.

Yuri paces the first floor in a black mood for the rest of the morning, half-feeling like it’s too late and he should just forget about it, and half-feeling like he should probably get a second opinion from someone, but automatically finding fault with anyone who comes to mind. He already knows Yakov won’t be much help—he consistently gifts anyone of import to him with a book—so he doesn’t even bother. Minako will probably pat his arm and say _I’m sure he’ll appreciate anything that comes from you, Yurio,_ which is a kind sentiment but frankly isn’t much help either.

There’s Jean-Jacques, who is in truth one of the most powerful healers Yuri’s ever met, in spite of the way he adds needless bursts of light to his work for no purpose other than aesthetics; Yuri’s grudgingly asked him for help a couple of times, once for a particularly difficult calf birthing, another time for a horse whose right fore was completely shattered—but he would gladly welcome death before asking him for help with something like this. Jean-Jacques’ pupil, Isabella, would probably be a better bet, but she’s with her family tonight (and Jean-Jacques, predictably, is off somewhere sulking about it).

In the end, it turns out he doesn’t have to ask. Yuri is sitting at the bar, kicking the counter arrhythmically with his chin resting on the surface, when Phichit and Yuuri decide to join him. “What’s wrong, Yurio?” Phichit asks, vaulting up onto the counter and craning around to look at him, eyes wide.

“We noticed you look a little...” Yuuri appears to be thinking of a word that won’t offend him. “Distressed,” he ventures finally, settling on the stool beside him.

“I am not _distressed,”_ Yuuri informs them hotly, directing another hard kick at the much-abused counter.

“If you say so.” Phichit shrugs. “But if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think _anybody_ knew what to get Otabek for Longnight.”

Yuri chokes. “I don’t know what you—“

Obliviously, Phichit continues talking, making vague gestures in the air. “I mean, obviously he likes his plants, but there are only so many gardening-related gifts out there…so I got him a new scribe’s kit.”

“I got him a new journal,” Yuuri volunteers, half-raising his hand.

“You two are disgustingly unimaginative,” Yuri informs them, scowling even as he feels his cheeks heat.

Yuuri laughs softly, tipping his head sideways the better to see Yuri’s face, his spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose. Yuuri’s magical gift has to do with crafting—weaving, pottery, basket-making, anything small and handmade. Perhaps that’s also why he’s so sensitive to others, what makes him pay attention to things like slight shifts in someone’s tone of voice, subtle creases on their brow. “I know you don’t like this kind of thing,” he says gently. “But I also know you want to get this just right.”

“It’s not like it’s _important—“_ Yuri kicks the counter with a thud—“or anything, I just have to—“ _thud—_ “give him something so he doesn’t—“ _thud_ —“think we’re _all_ a bunch of—“ _thud thud—_ “half-assed skinflints.”

“Well. Be that as it may.” Yuuri smiles. “Why don’t you talk to him? Maybe you can get some kind of a hint.”

“I saw him go into the garden,” Phichit says helpfully, thumbing in the direction of the back door.

Sitting back up, Yuri releases his breath in a noisy puff, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “I _hate_ Longnight,” he grumbles, sliding off the stool and slouching toward the kitchen.

The garden, of course, was all Otabek’s doing. Before he came, the yard behind the inn had been a weedy mess, just the place where guests ushered their friends who had had too much to drink and needed somewhere to quickly be sick. But one day Otabek asked Hiroko, in his unassuming way, if she would mind him fixing it up, to which she had said no, by all means—and just like that, all the weeds were cleared steadily away, and carrots and tomatoes, stately rose bushes and reckless jasmine vines, were planted in their place. Otabek takes an interest in all the townsfolk’s crops and flowers, but everyone knows the plants in the inn garden are his own pride and joy. If he’s not in the village or in the fields, he’s likely to be found in the yard, sweeping debris away from roots, trimming off dead canes, or simply sitting on the bench by the crumbling stone wall, playing the panpipes to his small, silent audience.

Sure enough, the snow-covered garden is where Yuri finds Otabek now, kneeling on the hardening ground and watering the roses. The rose bushes look sad and unremarkable now in their bareness, but even Yuri knows better than to say so aloud. “What are you doing that for?” he asks instead, hanging back with his hands in his pockets. “It’s not like they’ll bloom anytime soon.”

Otabek lifts his head slightly at the sound of his voice, but doesn’t turn around. “Roses still need water in the winter,” he explains after a moment. “When the ground hardens completely, the roots have to be covered with an additional layer of mulch, to preserve them.”

“Oh,” Yuri says stiffly, toeing a small puddle of slush with his boot. Part of him is telling him this was an awful, useless idea, and he should just turn on his heel and go back inside—but another part succeeds in willing him to move just a little closer, and then closer again until he’s standing right next to Otabek. Crouching slowly, he observes the way the older mage smooths the snow back from the bush’s roots with one gloved hand; there’s a mound of good soil there, one that was placed earlier in the season, just after the first frost.

“I always thought plant mages rested in winter. Since there isn’t much that grows now,” Yuri remarks as Otabek waters the bush. The chilly air trickles down his throat and into his chest, his breath forming tiny clouds in front of his face.

A faint smile tugs at the corners of Otabek’s mouth. “No, this is _their_ time to rest,” he says, dipping his head towards the rose bush. “And they trust me to care for them while they do—so in the spring, they can grow back stronger than ever.”

Otabek’s voice is always calm and quiet—but listening to it now, Yuri thinks it’s softer than he’s ever heard it. He looks at Otabek, _really_ looks at him, for the first time in a while. There are dark circles under the mage’s eyes, a slight tiredness in the curve of his shoulders that he never noticed before. Yuri’s first thought is that Otabek is ill, probably caught the sniffles from one of the brood of farmers’ brats that are forever clinging to Otabek’s legs, with their running noses and grubby hands—but a second look tells him it’s no cold or fever that’s bothering him now.

Yuri doesn’t do this often, but as he continues to look at Otabek he begins to use his magesight, the carefully controlled way Yakov taught him to. (“Attempt more than this, and you tempt madness,” Yakov had boomed, rapping Yuri hard on the back of his head to make sure he wouldn’t forget.) As he summons his power from within and focuses it to a pinpoint, until it’s strong enough to draw back the veil of the physical world just the slightest fraction, Yuri’s breath and heartbeat slow, and his vision of the garden grows gradually darker—save for the glow that he can now see surrounding Otabek, the glow that is both his magic and his spirit.

Right away Yuri realizes that Otabek’s aura is somewhat dimmer than it should be, a faint shimmer of green that’s brightest only in the center of the mage’s chest, flowing out from his heart to his hands. The rose bush has its own faint glow too, and as Otabek tends it, Yuri can see a steady stream of sparks traveling from his fingers to the bush’s roots, nurturing and fortifying them. On the other hand, the winter jasmine that twines up the wall, the only thing still thriving in this garden, is extending tendrils of its own life-force out to Otabek, as far as it can reach—and he acknowledges its offering with thanks, but turns the jasmine’s glimmering green stream back on itself, sending the magic back into its shoots so it can continue to flower.

It takes a moment for Yuri to figure out what it means. That Otabek draws strength from his flowers and vegetables, just as much as they draw the same from him. That Otabek, more than anyone, understands their need for renewal—but also that something inside him has slowly been wilting too, ever since they went to sleep.

 _So that’s all it is._ Yuri rolls his eyes and withdraws his magesight, watching as color ripples back into his surroundings, the sky turning a sleety blue again, the snow a bright white. After he’s made sure his pulse and breathing are back to normal, he sighs.

“You look terrible,” Yuri informs Otabek crisply. “Better get some sleep now. You’ll get none tonight.” With that, he stands, shaking out his cramping legs, and marches indoors without bothering to wait for a response.

Back at the bar, he informs Yuuri and Phichit that he has a plan, and that they’re going to help him whether they like it or not. The readiness with which they agree will, later, make Yuri wonder exactly who got the upper hand over whom—but for now, he has a couple of calls to pay.

 

Every household’s Longnight stew tastes different. Cinnamon, rosemary, and thyme are customary, but everything else is up to the imagination of the cook who prepares it. Back home, Yuri and his grandfather had usually spent Longnight with their neighbor, an elderly widow who was sweet and well-meaning, but who always made her stew with cloves upon cloves of garlic and—for some gods-forsaken reason—dried apricots.

Thankfully, it’s a different story in Hasetsu. No one’s really sure how it started, but at the inn, it’s become tradition for every mage present to add a little of their magic to Hiroko’s Longnight stew before it’s served. As the sun is setting, they all gather in the kitchen and one by one, pass their hands over the crockpot, giving of themselves and wishing good health on everyone who is to partake. This is Otabek’s first year at the inn, so it’s his first time contributing to the stew; he goes last, not speaking, merely touching the lip of the pot with a focus as intense as he bestows on any of his precious blooms.

“Thank you all,” Hiroko says when Otabek has finished. She lays the lid over the pot and smiles with satisfaction, the steam in the kitchen misting the lenses of her spectacles over. “We’ll have a real feast tonight.”

Night falls swiftly after that, like the curtain at the end of a long play—and as the guests come down from their rooms, and the farmers and tradesmen come trooping in from the village, everyone lends a hand in ladling the hot stew into bowls, slicing up the fresh loaves of bread, and carrying tray after tray out into the dining area. There’s a merry fire going in the grate, and Phichit’s lamps are throwing soft rainbows onto every surface.

Squeezing through the noisy crowd, Yuri unceremoniously drops plates onto the table in front of each guest in turn—there are the twins Sara and Michele, who have recently taken over running their parents’ farm together; Minako the schoolteacher, Emil the blacksmith. When all the tables are full and everyone has been served, Yuri slumps into a chair at the very end of the long table with his bowl of stew, Katya curled at his feet with her own.

The sound of a spoon rapping against a dish rings out loud and clear, and everyone falls silent as they turn to look at Yuuri, who is standing in front of the bar. Clearing his throat, Yuuri begins to speak. “We gather to give thanks for the year that has passed,” he declares, casting his gaze around the room. “We give thanks for the good we have received, and the hardships we have endured; for the journeys we have taken, and the lessons we have learned.

“We give thanks for magic, in all its forms—for everyday courage, for kindness, for love. For old friends, and new friends. For those who are no longer with us. And for those who are here in this room tonight.” Yuuri beams at his mother, and she pats his hand. “Now,” he says, “let us lay the old year to rest, and together, open our doors and usher in the new. A warm Longnight to all!”

“Warm Longnight,” everyone echoes, and as one, they lift their bowls and take their first sip of the stew.

As Yuri drinks the thick, piping-hot broth, each layer of flavor makes itself distinct on his tongue. The first is obvious—Hiroko’s gift runs throughout the entire base of the stew, rich and full, tying together meat and potatoes and stock. There’s Yuuri’s magic, like honeysuckle nectar, sweet and clear; Yakov’s, most familiar to Yuri, a solid and dignified presence reminiscent of well-aged whiskey; Guanghong’s, more fire and spice than anything else. Yuri’s own, which he can’t actually taste, only sense in the perfunctory way that he can recognize his own magic on a sealed letter or a spelled bandage—but which everyone has told him is like fresh cream from the best of the cows.

Then, unmistakably, Otabek’s. His magic tastes like wild mushrooms plucked from the heart of the forest, dark and earthy—but there also is the sharp, clean tang of mountain herbs, and it’s almost a shock to Yuri, a sudden, unexpected reminder of the village he himself left behind not too long ago. He sets down his bowl and blinks, surprised that his eyes are wet.

Otabek is two seats away, but he’s looking at him. “Yuri,” he says softly, almost a question. He never calls Yuri by the nickname the others do. It’s one of the things Yuri first noticed about him.

“It’s nothing.” Yuri glances away, as the chatter in the room begins to grow louder once more. “I burned my tongue.”

Dinner goes on, the guests handing the bread plates and butter dishes back and forth, roaring with laughter whenever someone tells a joke and shaking their foamy tankards of ale at the teller. Under the table, Katya licks her bowl of stew spotless, and Yuri’s too, once he gives it to her. As they eat, everyone begins to exchange their gifts. Many of the village folk give presents from their own stores: eggs, salted pork, rounds of cheese. Seung-gil, the earth mage, passes out rough, milky-white crystal points the width of a palm—which, he explains in his usual toneless voice, are good for purifying water, sterilizing tools, or simply focusing the mind during meditation. Chris, the village tailor, surprises all of the mages with new silk shirts, making his strange habit of taking a person’s measurements the instant he meets them more understandable now. (“I thought you deserved garments more suited to your beautiful bodies,” he says airily. “You wizards, with your boxy tunics and shapeless flowing robes. _So_ unbecoming.”)

Yuri receives other, more personal presents, too—a new book from Yakov, naturally, one with beautiful hand-colored lithographs of animal skeletons and musculature. A bag of the honey-and-ginger sweets he likes from the Katsuki family; some kind of charm from Mila, which she refuses to tell him the purpose of until he agrees to wear it around his neck (which will be never, he informs her). To all of them Yuri grumbles a thank-you, glaring when they respond by ruffling his hair, or worse, hugging him.

He’s most surprised, however, when Otabek scrapes back his chair, moves unobtrusively to Yuri’s side, and simply hands him a package about the length of his forearm, wrapped in brown paper. Yuri looks from it to Otabek and back again in disbelief, before finally reaching out, taking it from him, and undoing the twine.

Peeling back the paper reveals a smooth-polished wooden box, with a flat lid and two sturdy clasps. They open with a satisfying click, and Yuri lifts the lid to see that the box is empty, save for one thing—but that the inside is divided into compartments of different sizes. As Yuri looks at each individual compartment, he can immediately think of a use for it—the long slot at the end will be perfect for candles, the row of square ones for securely storing his small glass specimen jars. A closer inspection reveals that the box is also lined and spelled, to protect the contents from water damage or fire. Inexplicably, the only actual item inside is a beautiful length of silk ribbon, in a bright, jewel-like shade of blue.

“The ribbon is for Katya,” Otabek says, breaking the silence.

 _Don’t worry, I’ll let you borrow it,_ Katya tells Yuri, peering into the box and purring with amusement.

Even without looking, Yuri can sense Otabek is watching his expression. “I…didn’t know what things you might need, so I thought of giving you somewhere safe to keep them instead,” Otabek murmurs.

“You—you didn’t have to. Do this.” Yuri stares down at the box with his lips pressed together, hating Otabek for his thoughtfulness, hating himself for the way his throat has suddenly decided to close. Why does he have to make things so _complicated?_

“I wanted to,” Otabek says patiently.

Carefully, Yuri closes the box, snapping the clasps shut, and draws it onto his lap. “Well. Thank you,” he mumbles. Looking satisfied, Otabek nods and returns to his seat.

Yuri glances sideways in embarrassment, and is horrified to see that Phichit has been watching them with obvious delight the whole time. Unfortunately, he seems to take the look on Yuri’s face as _the sign,_ because he immediately clears his throat.

 _“Oh, my, what’s that in the garden?”_ Phichit says loudly, and everyone turns to look out the window. Clenching his teeth, Yuri makes a mental note to strangle Phichit the next time he gets him alone.

“Burglars?” Jean-Jacques is on his feet in an instant. “Could burglars have climbed the back wall?”

“No!” Yuuri says quickly, waving his hands. “No, I can see from here—there’s nobody there. But there appears to be, er, some kind of light? Maybe?”

Naturally, everyone’s next move is to get up and go out the back way to find out exactly what _is_ in the garden; Yuri trails behind, in no hurry whatsoever, lingering in the kitchen and tearing a chunk off the end of the extra loaf on the counter. His eyes never leave Otabek, however, and he watches as the tall mage steps out into the yard before everyone else, watches as his shoulders gain a new, upright slant. Gradually, the rest of the crowd trickles outside, all of them gasping as they see what Otabek saw first. Yuri lets them disperse before joining them, pulling his cloak more securely around him as he looks out into the night.

The yard is illuminated by dozens of miniature paper lanterns, lit from within by tiny orbs of pure light. They dangle from the wall, from the lowest-hanging branch of the old tree that overhangs it; from the lush tangles of jasmine and from the ends of the canes on the rose bushes. Little bells have been tied to the dry stems as well, with bits of crimson thread—and so have feathers, acorns, and pinecones, cleverly knotted together into ornaments. (A second look would make it evident that some of the knots are far sloppier and more impatient than the others, but at the moment no one’s standing near enough to tell.) As the wind picks up slightly, the decorations clink and chime, filling the garden with soft, simple music.

“But who _did_ this?” Sara asks, gazing at the shining bushes; her arm is looped securely into Mila’s, her eyes sparkling.

“I have no idea,” Yuuri replies calmly.

Phichit shrugs. “It’s a mystery!”

 _My, my,_ Katya meows from her spot on the back step. _The hands—and heart—that worked this magic must be tender indeed._ Yuri doesn’t dignify her comment with even a backward glance. As everyone continues to exclaim over the display, Yuri’s eyes flicker up to Otabek’s face instead. In the shadows, his expression is inscrutable.

“What’s this! It looks like I haven’t missed the party after all,” a lilting voice says from behind them, and rather than turn around to see where it’s coming from, everyone instantly looks at Yuuri Katsuki. Pressing his hands to his mouth, Yuuri whirls and wordlessly races back across the garden, kicking up snow as he goes, but not stopping until he’s close enough to fling his arms around the neck of the silver-haired man standing in the doorway.

Yakov sighs. “Always one for dramatic entrances, that Vitya,” he says, shaking his head.

In a way, however, Yuri is grateful Victor interrupted. While everyone is crowding around Victor to slap him on the back and welcome him home, Yuri gets the chance to approach Otabek. He’s still standing in the snow looking at his garden, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering lights in the branches. “So I asked Hiroko,” Yuri says, folding his arms. “She said by the look of things, we’ll have an early spring this year.”

Otabek blinks down at Yuri. “I know,” he replies softly.

Yuri makes a scoffing noise, scoring a hard line in the snow with the toe of his boot. “Good. Then stop _moping,_ will you? That expression of yours is dismal enough to make weeds sprout.”

Yuri’s close enough now to see Otabek’s gaze soften still, the slackened line of his mouth curve into a small smile. “I’ll do my best,” he says finally.

“One more thing.” Yuri points towards the wall. “Your jasmine’s trying to help you. Maybe don’t be such a stubborn bastard and let it, once in a while.”

Otabek follows the path of Yuri’s finger, contemplating the starry yellow flowers in silence. If he knows what’s good for him, Yuri thinks, as he watches the smile grow slightly wider, he’s already relaxing the boundaries of his magic—letting the jasmine’s green bounty flow into him and take root.

“Thank you, Yuri,” Otabek says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

One by one, they all tramp in to sit by the fire. Victor pulls up a chair and regales them with stories of his travels in the royal city, describing the illusions he cast for the enraptured court—using only one hand to make his usual flamboyant gestures, because since he arrived his other hand hasn’t let go of Yuuri’s. There’s plenty of mulled wine, and sugared biscuits, and Mila’s cordial drink, the latter of which tastes as though it’s stealing years off all their lifespans.

By popular request, Leo brings his fiddle down from his room and starts to play—all the old Longnight songs, and one or two new ones he’s made up. Everyone joins in singing, and when the music changes to a lively reel, Victor leaps to his feet, bows low, and extends his arm to Hiroko. Laughing and swatting him, Hiroko takes his arm anyway, and the two of them begin to lead the others in a dance, twirling, stamping their boots, and clapping their hands.

At the top of the stairs, slightly removed from all the music and chaos, Otabek and Yuri have settled on the step with their cups of wine. Yuri’s legs are stretched out down the next three steps, while Katya is nestled half-asleep in Otabek’s lap, her new ribbon tied in a neat bow around her neck.

“I am glad I decided to stay here,” Otabek says quietly, unexpectedly. His hand cups the back of Katya’s head, his fingers tracing patterns into the soft fur behind her ears. “When I took my journeyman’s oath, I told myself I would seek out fields that truly needed me. Farms that were suffering from parched earth or blight, struggling to yield harvests—and live out my year working there.” He moves his hand to Katya’s back, stroking the purring cat from her shoulders to the base of her tail. “Part of me still feels guilty, now and then, for doing otherwise. But…most days, I feel as though Hasetsu is truly where I am meant to be. I have learned much here, and I hope the townsfolk have learned as much from me.”

“Gods. No wonder you’re a plant mage,” Yuri mutters over the rim of his cup. The mulled wine sears on its way down his throat, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach.

Otabek is looking at him bemusedly. “Because you’re _sappy,”_ Yuri explains—though for some reason, he has to say it twice to get the words over his tongue.

 _Clever,_ Katya mews, her ear twitching.

“Yes, I _am,”_ Yuri agrees loudly, draining the last dregs from his cup.

Otabek coughs gently into his fist. “I believe this is the first time I’ve ever heard you speak in jest,” he comments, setting his own cup down beside him, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “It makes...quite an interesting change.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Yuri feels as though the space between his ears is full of fog—but he knows there’s something important he needed to say, he just can’t remember what. He decides to rest his head against the banister, just for a moment while he collects his thoughts; the wooden post digging into his temple and cheek shouldn’t possibly feel this good, but it does.

“No.” Yuri can hear the smile in Otabek’s voice. “Never.”

Perhaps closing his eyes will help him figure it out. Yuri does just that, welcoming the relief the darkness brings. “I’m glad too,” he mumbles, his sentence punctuated by a gaping yawn. “That you decided to stay. No one's struggling to yield a harvest around here, but...there are those who have need of you, just the same.” The other mage is silent for a long moment, while the sure, sweet sound of Leo’s fiddle drifts up the staircase from below, wrapping around them and filling the space in between.

“Warm Longnight, Yuri,” Otabek murmurs at last—but his voice is so far away now, and Yuri’s eyelids are so heavy, that he can’t answer.  _No matter,_ he thinks, just before he drifts off into sleep. He’ll tell Otabek whatever it was he wanted to tell him in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO backstory time! This all started because my friends and I were doing a Christmas fic exchange, and one of the prompts on Meg’s wishlist was “Otayuri fairytale/fantasy AU,” which I thought was! so lovely! So I ended up starting one, but then I.........got mad at it halfway through and gave up on it hahahuhu. I ended up writing Meg something completely different for the exchange, and just posted the first couple paragraphs of the unfinished fantasy AU on Tumblr, for posterity’s sake. 
> 
> BUT THEN Meg took the core premise of fantasy AU and ran with it and wrote a completely amazing, thoughtful, and adorable spinoff—which, after it made me scream for ten thousand years, made me go back and reopen that unfinished file and think huh, maybe this isn’t so terrible after all. And well, now the fantasy AU is going to be a series because irl the two of us are secretly frustrated fantasy writers with too many ideas; subscribe to "Stopping for a Spell" to find out what mischief we can manage HAHAHA
> 
> Ending this by saying, an immeasurable thank you to Meg for the fic, and the panpipes of enablingness, and the jasmine—the last of which is a more than welcome addition to Otabek’s little garden, and will continue to grow and thrive there forever and ever. (HI MOM TODAY WE ARE CANCELING THE APOCALYPSE, BEKA’S NEVER GOING HOME, ALL THE MESSAGE HAWKS ARE FLYING BACK UNANSWERED)
> 
> also, one of my original notes for this just says, “there are no motorcycles in fantasy AU so otabek has a horse”


End file.
